Page 7

Chapter seven

Isabella’s Residence, Knightsbridge

Hunter

Isabella’s front gate swings in the wind as I sit in the rear seat of my car, attempting to summon the courage to face her. My driver is silent—the privacy screen has been raised, but the one-way glass allows me to see him playing a game on his phone. He matches three blocks of the same color then they explode. What a mind-numbing pastime. Sometimes, I wonder where Damon finds these idiots he assigns to me.

His eyes lift as if he can see me through the glass, and I raise my middle finger. No doubt he’s wondering why we’re sitting outside what must seem like a random house in the city. My normal brash demeanor is subdued, because I have no idea what Isabella will say when I give her the ultimatum I am about to.

The night of our wedding, we had attempted to make love. I knew she was scared of the potential pain, but when she screamed as I entered her, I hadn’t been prepared for the guilt. It consumed me like a wave of hatred for myself. I’d hurt her. That was last thing I ever wanted to do.

As I consoled her in my arms, the suite door swung open and both our fathers strode in. I’d looked between them, stunned as they were joined by three henchmen guarding the door. It was a mob making their way to battle rather than a joyous family at their children’s wedding.

“Get the fuck out of here,” I roared as they came toward the bed. “This is our wedding night.”

“More importantly, it’s the consummation of a contract,” Isabella’s father said with a sneer. “This is why I would have preferred boys. Girls are pathetic creatures. My daughter, you must do your duty and consummate this marriage tonight.”

My wife peaked around my arms as I cradled her; she shook as the insane events took place. We were vulnerable, naked on the bed. I pulled the sheet around us in a late attempt to protect Isabella from unwanted eyes.

“It hurts,” she whispered against my arm.

“I know, Bella. I’ll sort this.” I kissed the top of her head then returned my attention to our fathers.

“The only way to sort this is to complete the task at hand,” my father shouted. The furious tone something I was all too familiar with in my childhood. He was a bastard in life, as he no doubt is in death. An ending I enjoyed executing myself. “Fuck your wife and be done with it, so we can return to more important business.”

“I don’t need to have sex with her tonight to prove we are wed,” I countered, and the old men sneered. They looked at one another nothing but disgust on their faces. Their men stood shoulder to shoulder across the now-closed door, blocking the exit.

“Unconsummated marriages can be annulled,” Isabella’s father said bluntly.

“We’re not living in dark ages. How the fuck do you know we…” Before I could finish the question, my focus lifted to the small black camera above the doorway. “You were watching us.” I knew my family was controlling, but I’d never expected this.

Isabella’s father’s face hardened as he looked as his daughter, waving a hand at her dismissively. “This one here had loose lips, and I don’t mean the kind you’re interested in. She made her concerns quite loudly to her mother. I felt we needed to be sure she would follow through. But yet again, Isabella, you are nothing but a disappointment.”

My wife’s silent sobs transformed into cinematic ones. She cried openly against my chest. All the shame, despair, and embarrassment rushed to the surface at once.

“Isabella,” I whispered. “Stay in bed. I’ll see our guests out. Throw me that towel, Father.”

“No. Get on top of your wife and do your duty.”

I froze. The words slithered through the room like a death sentence. Not waiting for the towel, I scrambled to my feet and shoved the old man in the chest. He stumbled back, glaring, his weak hands clutching my arms to steady himself. But for all he lacked in strength, his mind was as sharp as ever.

“I said leave!” My voice shook with rage. “Isabella and I will decide when the time is right. This is none of your concern.”

Cold steel pressed beneath my throat. My father’s knife bit into my skin, just enough to let blood trickle down the blade, warm drops sliding onto my chest. “And I said, fuck your wife, Son. There’s more at stake from this union than her discomfort or your bruised ego.” He lowered his blade, and I took the opportunity to grab his arm, twisting it behind his back. It was then I felt the muzzle of a gun resting against my temple.

Isabella screamed.

Her father stood behind me, his finger resting on the trigger. He passed me the towel.

“No,” she begged, wrapping the sheet around herself and rushing to my side. “No Father, please don’t.”

“The clock is running out, Isabella. You and I both know that.” His tone was cold, dismissive. “If he won’t make your marriage official, I’ll kill him and find someone who will.”

“What the fuck is going on?” I growled, batting the gun away. The older man lifted it once more, this time aiming between my eyes. My hands curled into fists.

“Some unions assure peace, Son. Some are business dealings, not romances. Our enemies are watching, even from within our own ranks. Do you not think they will hear of this failure?” My father always spoke in riddles, but this time I understood.

“If you don’t do your duty tonight,” Isabella’s father continued, “you will never see my daughter again. She’ll be married off within the month—to someone stronger, more committed than you. Someone committed to providing the male heir I desire.”

“Or you’ll be dead,” my father added. “Complete the contract to ensure peace between England and Spain. Together, we are stronger.”

Silence thickened the air. Then Isabella’s father spoke again.

“There is another option. You allow fate to decide.” He spun the revolver in his hand, then aimed it at my forehead. “Six chambers. One bullet. Three chances. If you survive, we’ll allow more time. If you don’t…well, you won’t know either way.”

I turned to Isabella, searching for guidance. Terror had frozen her in place.

I waited for my father to object. He didn’t.

There was no doubt he would kill me if it benefitted his plan. My father always loved power more than anything or anyone in his life. Forever a sociopath, he would take out anyone who stood in his way. In this case, the goal was creating an allegiance with Spain and rising to the top of the order in our world, with me or without me.

“Bella,” I said through gritted teeth. She blinked up at me and nodded.

“I can do this,” she whispered. I exhaled sharply.

“Leave,” I ordered our fathers. “And take your men with you.”

The bastards laughed.

“If you think we’re going anywhere until we know this is done, you’re more stupid than you look,” Isabella’s father sneered. “Now, clean yourself up and complete the contract. One misstep and your brains will be splattered across the walls, Devane. Finish it.” The gun didn’t lower until I obeyed.

After it was over, Isabella twisted the sheets around her as the men left. Nothing had been romantic or beautiful about our first time. She said yes, and we did the deed as if we were strangers. No kisses. No whispered words. Just the silent promise that I would hate myself for the rest of my life.

Her face twisted as I took her. She made no sound, but the tension in her muscles told me she was in pain.

The old bastards had jeered as I moved within her, swapping crude jokes. Each man reminisced about their wedding nights and how much better they had been with compliant wives, congratulating each other on what great men they were.

Then to ensure there were no lies, they ripped back the sheets.

Blood.

Evidence that the contract was sealed.

I had never despised my father more.

When I reached for Isabella to comfort her, she shrugged me off, curling in on herself, and staring blankly at the wall.

I knew then. Our marriage was over before it had begun.

Her fire was gone, and I was the one that extinguished it. Our wedding day had been the best of my life, but the night had destroyed it all.

That night has haunted me for years. Two decades on, any attempt to reconcile was rejected with hatred. I understood her hurt and humiliation, but her abhorrence toward me stung just as much. The choices given were impossible: deflower my wife or die. Somedays, I wonder if I should have accepted the bullet; the pain would have been far less. But then, who would she have married and where would she be now? I may not have her physically, but for the past twenty years she’s still been very much mine.

After throwing myself into a dark mood with the memories, I grab the divorce contract Isabella requested I sign and push open the door. As I reach the front gates, I’m met by the brute of a guard she has, Ronan, who appears to be leaving for the evening.

“Good evening, Mr. Devane,” he says with a nod. “Ms. Espinosa is settled for the night. Perhaps you should return another day.”

“I’m here to see my wife, Mrs. Devane,” I answer bluntly. He opens his mouth to protest, and I respond by twirling my knife between my fingers. “We both know what I can do with this, Ronan. Take me to see my wife before you can’t produce any more children.”

There is a stand-off for a beat, but he relents easier than expected, turning and heading back toward the house. Ronan waves away the approaching security guard and walks up the stairs to my wife’s home as if he owns it. He takes the key from his pocket and opens the front door naturally. I don’t like it.

“Ronan,” Isabella calls, obviously hearing the lock. “Ronan, is that you?”

She appears in the hallway but stops dead when she sees me. Her face falls, then twists in anger at my intrusion. She looks unraveled in her fluffy pajamas, an eye mask propped on top of her head holding back black curls.

“How dare you?” she snarls. “Coming to my home uninvited. Leave, Hunter. There is nothing to discuss.” Her focus moves to the envelope in my hand. “If that is the signed papers, you should drop them at my lawyer.”

“I have a proposition,” I say evasively. As I step into the house, Ronan’s arm shoots forward to block my path. “Down boy, I won’t bite her. Isabella, tell your lapdog to sit.”

“Don’t be so fucking rude,” she snaps, stalking over and smacking my shoulder. “Ronan, you can go home. He’s an asshole, but he won’t hurt me.”

“If you’re sure, Miss?” he questions.

“I am, good night.”

***

Isabella

Hunter and I watch Ronan walk off down the hallway. When he disappears from view, I turn and glare at my husband.

“What do you want?”

“A conversation,” he replies. Every fiber of my being is screaming to send him away. This is not a good position to be in, alone with the man who shattered my heart. “Hear me out, and if we can’t come to an agreement, I’ll sign.” Uncertain but curious, I relent. If it means there’s light at the end of the tunnel, it may be worth speaking to him.

“I suppose you better come in.” He follows me in, turning and closing the door behind us. “Do you want a drink?”

“Whatever you’re having is fine.”

The white wine sits on the coffee table. I grab another glass from the sideboard before pouring his drink and passing it to him. He takes it from me and lifts it to his lips, downing more than half. His strong throat muscles flex beneath his skin. I can’t help but watch.

“Thirsty?” I ask.

“Nervous.”

His reply surprises me, and I stop momentarily to look at him. Dressed in his sleek dark suit and crisp white shirt, with his hair twisted into a bun, he looks every inch the businessman. The long, dark wool coat he wears completes the sleek style.

I watch him tentatively as he places his glass down and shrugs out of his coat before sitting. After catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I am acutely aware that my appearance is much less put together and more like a mother at wine o’clock. But tits up, I’ve got this. He appeared here, unannounced; I won’t let him upset me. I take my drink and sit down opposite him.

“Talk,” I say, gesturing with my free hand for him to speak. He smirks, then presses his lips together as if to stop himself from saying something he shouldn’t. He takes his phone from his suit jacket pocket and passes it to me.

“Press play,” he says.

A video of CCTV footage appears on the screen. A man dressed in gym clothes is being manhandled from a doorway and then held against the wall at knifepoint by Hunter. There is no sound, but a struggle ensues then the victim runs off clasping his cheek.

“Why?”

“You haven’t seen it already?” he asks, surprised. I shake my head. “Everyone else in London has.”

“Why?” I repeat, wanting to keep the conversation short, to the point, and not show any unnecessary empathy.

“He was inappropriate with one of the cleaners at the gym. He needed to be taught a lesson.” I look from the phone to my estranged husband and back to the phone. “It perhaps was not the best method of education I decided to use. This footage has been leaked all over social media. It’s causing me what some may call business issues .”

I pass him his phone back and fix him with a stare

“What has any of this to do with me?”

“I need your help,” he says, his expression open and honest. “I need you to be my wife. I need you to pose as Mrs. Devane. Accompany me to events. That sort of thing.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. How will that help?”

“My reputation is in tatters. If I can provide a solid image that will improve the situation, all will be forgotten.”

“You think parading me around the city will save your business,” I say sarcastically. “I know the sort of things you get up to; finally, all that shit is catching up.”

He shrugs, unruffled by my pushback.

“My lawyers and the PR company I hired think so. They’re the experts, so I’m happy to go along with their suggestion.”

“Well, I’m not!” I screech, shooting to my feet. “Sign the fucking papers and find some other woman to fill the role. I am sure there are plenty in the queue.”

He rises to join me, stepping forward into my space. His hand lifts to my cheek. As it connects with my skin, a jolt of electricity shoots through me, and he smiles. He felt it, too. For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, but his eyes only hold mine for a beat.

“Bella, no matter what you have heard, there has only ever been you,” he breathes. My brain misfires, attempting to compute what he said. That can’t be true. “Give me thirty-six months.”

“Three years? You want me to play wife for three years? No, Hunter. I want my life to start now.”

“You need me to sign, Bella. I could drag the divorce out if I wanted to.”

My mind whirls, trying to consider my options. He’s agreed to sign, but on his terms. Men in power don’t like losing; they’re also comfortable negotiating. He’s willing to barter. Sometimes, you need to play with the lion to get what you want.

“Three months,” I counteroffer, and he shakes his head.

“Twenty-four.”

“Six,” I say, then cross my arms over my chest. I straighten my shoulders and glare up at him, attempting to ooze control. He needs me, and I need him; we’re both in a win-or-lose situation.

“My final offer is twelve, or I instruct my lawyers to contest this.” He shakes the divorce contract. His eyes flick to my open fire burning adjacent to him. He saunters over and throws the paperwork on the flames. “In twelve months, present me with another one and I’ll sign, Bella. Until then, be my wife.”

I look from him to the burning document and back again.

“Do we have a deal?” he prompts, walking toward me with his hand outstretched.

“We have a deal.” He takes my hand, squeezing it in his. His large frame leans down and places a kiss on my cheek. My stomach flips like the traitor my body is around him.

“Grand doing business with ya,” he says, his Irish lilt more pronounced. “I’ll be in touch.”

With that, he releases my hand and leaves out of the front door.